


Flat Tire

by curiouslyblessed



Category: The A-Team (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 22:18:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7592395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiouslyblessed/pseuds/curiouslyblessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The A-Team are stranded on the side of the road with nothing in sight but a run down bar called "Winchester's".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flat Tire

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a Supernatural crossover, promise. I just wanted to play around with my OCs.

Rain dripped from the sky. It had been raining all week without stop and the weather didn’t see fit to stop for BA Baracus’ popped tire. He cursed the insubstantial rubber with streams of rain running down his face. “It’s no good,” he said, throwing himself back into the driver’s seat. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“What about the spare?” Hannibal Smith chewed his cigar. Colonel Decker was less than a mile behind them and closing fast. If the tire was popped and there was no spare… His mind strayed to the unpleasant possibilities.

BA shook his head. “That was the spare.”

“What’re we gonna do, colonel?” the voice from the back of the van belonged to ex-Captain HM Murdock. It lilted like a crooked schoolhouse deep in the Louisiana bayous. “We’re miles from anywhere.”

“I know that, captain,” his voice was almost a whisper.

“Well,” the single word was more of a question when Templeton “Faceman” Peck spoke it. “What’s your plan, Hannibal?”

There was always a plan. Always. Hannibal wracked his brain for something ‒ anything! ‒ that could get them out of their current situation. The answer came in the form of a faint blinking light in the distance. It was a neon sign, there was no doubt of that, and it meant that there was _something_ nearby.

“Gentlemen, we’re going to get a little wet.”

It took the four of them almost an hour to reach the neon light. The rain had just begun to slacken when they reached it. “Winchester’s” blinked on and off in a sickening shade of green.

“It’s a bar,” BA said. “It had to be a bar.”

“What’s wrong with bars?” Murdock asked, wiping a marauding raindrop from his nose.

“They’re full of alcohol.”

The captain gestured at BA. “Listen to this guy, fellas, bars have alcohol.”

“Thank God,” Face mumbled, crossing himself.

They entered the bar to find it almost completely deserted. In one corner sat a man who’s size was only rivaled by the number of biker stereotypes he met. A man with sandy hair and a hard look in his blue eyes stood behind the bar. His hands made rhythmic circles as he polished an already clean glass.

“What can I get you gentlemen?” his voice was thickly southern with just a tinge of California around the edges. “Whiskey? Beer?” He surveyed Face. “Cocktails?”

“Just a clean bathroom, thanks,” Face grimaced at the accurate summation of his personality.

The bartender jerked a thumb over her left shoulder. “Through the kitchen ‒ but watch out for the cook, she likes knives.”

Face turned up the corners of his mouth in something that looked like a smile and gave a humorous laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The remaining three members of the A-Team sat at the bar. BA kept throwing furtive glances at the biker in the corner.

“Don’t worry ‘bout him,” the bartender put the glass down in front of him. “It’s just Monster. He’s our part-time bouncer, full-time literary critic.”

Hannibal frowned at the biker, who returned the expression for a few moments before smiling bashfully. “Surely your friend isn’t Chimera?”

The bartender clicked his tongue. “That’s him.”

“He ripped that Cannell fella to bits last week,” said Murdock in hushed tones of awe.

Face interrupted their peaceful conversation by flying from between the double doors of the kitchen. “Incoming,” he yelled, sliding past Murdock to a spot just behind BA.

The double doors swung wide for the second time to reveal a shapely young woman with hair the color of a lit match. “Where is he?” she demanded.

Hannibal Smith stood in the presence of the lady. “Hannibal Smith, Miss...” he trailed off, waiting for her to supply a name.

“Winchester,” she hissed. “Where’s the little fella with the blond hair?”

“Ahh, Miss Winchester, no doubt you own this little establishment,” he gestured at the bar with his cigar. “It’s a nice place.”

She let the switchblade in her left hand droop. “We think so. You’re avoiding my question, Mr. Smith.”

“He’s hiding behind Mr. Baracus.”

“What did he do this time,” Murdock asked, drawling the question.

Miss Winchester’s eyes settled on the pilot, clearly asking a question that she didn’t voice for a few moments. “This time? What did he do last time?”

“Ass pinchin’.”

She muttered something that sounded like “Lord give me strength”.

“So, what did he do this time?”

“It’s not so much what he did as it is what he said.”

Murdock gave Face a look that implied his nickname should be “Mouth”. “Do you care to elaborate?”

“Not particularly. I’ll let your little buddy there speak for himself.”

“Face,” Hannibal turned to the lieutenant, “what did you say to the _owner_ of this charming little establishment? You know, the woman who can kick us out into the rain any time she wants to.”

“I, uh ‒ I just ‒” he pulled at his collar, “I made a few compliments about her figure and asked if she wanted to come back to my place once we got out of the fix we were in.”

Miss Winchester waved her switchblade at Hannibal. “Which brings me to my next question: what fix?”

“Our van broke down just up the road. No doubt that’s what Mr. Peck was referring to.” Just as he said this, the windows lit up with the distinctive red and blue lights that brought the police to mind. He quietly cursed their bad fortune. “But I gather you’re not going to believe that story.”

She shook her head. “Gains,” she turned to the bartender. “What do you think of that story?”

“Grade A fertilizer, in my opinion.”

“Well, Mr. Hannibal Smith, you’d better tell me what trouble you have with our local law and order.”

“It’s not so much _your_ local police as it is _everyone’s_ local police.”

She raised her eyebrows.

Gains snapped his fingers. “I know where I’ve seen them, Am. There was an article right next to Monster’s last book review in the paper about this group a’ mercenaries that were wanted by the army.”

Monster moved quietly for a man of his size, appearing at BA’s elbow as if by magic. “The A-Team,” he shook his head. “Never thought I’d see you in person.”

The police lights grew brighter and a noise crackled over a wet loudspeaker. “Smith, this is Decker. Come out now and you won’t be hurt.”

“Hell,” was Hannibal’s only response.

“Does he mean what I think he means?” Winchester growled. “He’s goin’ t’ start shooting, isn’t he?”

“I’d be very much surprised if he didn’t,” Face sighed.

“If he does I’ll have his… his...” she buried the tip of the switchblade in the bartop. “What is the bastard anyway? A corporal? A captain?”

“Colonel,” supplied Murdock, “and a nasty one, too.” He hopped off the bar stool and crossed to the window. “What’s more, he doesn’t know about me.”

“Well, if he starts shootin’ I’ll have his eagles,” she folded her knife and shoved it into her jean’s pocket. “And how can he not know about you? Aren’t you a member of this,” she waved her hand at Hannibal et al, “A-Team business.”

Gains touched her arm. “Not officially, I gather.”

“I’d rather not get put away permanently for a treason that I ‒ that none of us ‒ committed.”

Her eyebrows drew together in a frown and she was about to make a further comment on the word “permanently” when the voice crackled from the darkness again. “You have two minutes, Smith, then we’re coming in.”

Hannibal ground his cigar into the nearby ashtray with vindictive force. It was, again, time for a plan and he, again, didn’t have one. It was getting downright inconvenient. “I’m taking suggestions,” he murmured.

Monster raised a finger. “I have a suggestion.”

They all turned to look at him and he smiled. “I suggest that we err on the side of the law.”

True to form, Decker burst through the door exactly two minutes from his second warning. He swept the room with his gun, searching for his elusive quarry. When he didn’t find them, he shifted his attention to Gains. “Where are they,” he growled. “And don’t try to tell me that they aren’t here, I found their van down the road and this is the only place for miles.”

Gains had gone back to polishing the glass. “Who?” he asked, not pausing his work.

“The A-Team, that’s who.”

Gains put the glass down on the bar. “Didn’t I read an article about them on page eight of the paper. Hey, Monster, weren’t they next to that book review on page eight?”

Monster seated himself at the bar, staring into Decker’s clear blue eyes. “I believe so. The title of the article, if memory serves, was ‘Army Still Can’t Catch Mercenaries.’”

Decker turned an unpleasant shade of red.

“That’s it,” Gains snapped his fingers. “I knew I saw them somewhere. Sorry, mister, we haven’t had anyone in here all night.”

“It’s colonel, son, and I think I’ll just satisfy myself as to that fact,” he took two steps forward before he heard the familiar click of a six shooter. The soldiers standing behind him bristled in their boots and grabbed for their rifles.

Winchester stood next to Gains. “I’d like t’ see your warrant,” she said, gently spinning the chambers of her gun.

“I don’t need one,” a vein pulsed in Decker’s neck. “I’m with the army.” He took a step forward but was stopped by a bullet from Winchester’s gun as it buried itself into the floorboards less than a foot from his regulation boots.

“I beg to differ,” she smiled. “You really do.”

His face went from red to purple.

“That doesn’t look good,” Gains said. “Do you have a heart problem, colonel?”

“No,” Decker hissed. “I do not. What I do have is an A-Team problem and I’m going to search this place. Crane,” he barked at the unfortunate captain. “If that woman fires again, I want you to shoot her.”

Winchester raised her middle finger. “Get fucked, colonel.”

He snarled and started to step forward again, but Gains raised his hand. “I wouldn’t advise it, colonel. We haven’t seen your A-Team. You don’t have a warrant. My friend here would be well within her rights to shoot you for trespassing, army or no.”

The colonel ground his teeth. “I will be back in an hour with a warrant and if I find any trace of the A-Team here, I will have the both of you arrested. Do you understand me?”

Gains and Winchester looked at each other before they looked at the colonel. “Yes,” Gains spoke for the both of them. “We look forward to seeing you then, Colonel Decker.”

They watched him leave, listening to the sound of the cars pulling out of the parking lot. When Winchester was satisfied that they were truly gone, she tapped the butt of her gun on the bar twice. “He’s gone.”

Murdock popped up uncomfortably close to her. “Are you sure,” he whispered. “He’s a wily old fox.”

She patted his face. “He’s gone, doll, don’t worry about it.”

Hannibal and BA emerged from the kitchen and Face crawled out from under Monster’s table. “Are they gone?” Face asked, brushing dirt from his normally pristine coat.

“We just covered that,” Winchester rolled her eyes.

“What we haven’t covered is what you’re going to do next,” Gains picked the glass back up. “Your van still isn’t up and running.”

“Actually, it isn’t an engine problem,” BA said. “We got a flat tire.”

“A flat tire?” Winchester hid her face in her hands. “All this over a flat tire? Hell, I could have fixed that in two seconds. Come out back, I’ll grab y’all a tire.” She grabbed BA by the arm and dragged him through the kitchen’s double doors. Hannibal and Face trailed along behind them, waiting to see if they could be any help.

Murdock clapped Gains on the shoulder. “She’s quite a woman.”

Gains snorted and Monster laughed from his spot across the room. “You’re tellin’ me.”


End file.
